


That Time They Found Bahorel

by ecrituredelafangirl



Series: Remember Verse [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Fluff, Gen, Las Vegas, M/M, Pining Courfeyrac, no weddings...this time, yes they somehow acquired a peacock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-22 00:12:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ecrituredelafangirl/pseuds/ecrituredelafangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Les Amis belong together, that Courfeyrac is sure of. But, up until this point, he hadn't been sure where the last member of their little group was located. </p>
<p>And then Courfeyrac organized a trip to Vegas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Time They Found Bahorel

Vegas was a bad idea. Courfeyrac knew it, everyone knew it, but that didn’t stop him. Their merry band of misfits had found another lost soul (Marius had remembered the moment he saw her – Cosette – across the courtyard at his University) and Courfeyrac wanted to _celebrate_. There wasn’t a thing in the world that could have stopped him. 

It took a day and a half, at one in the morning, with Jehan in showgirl getup, Grantaire at the bar, Bossuet losing at least a thousand dollars on the casino floor, and a peacock tucked under Courfeyrac’s own arm before he realized that perhaps something _should have_. 

It wasn’t that he was unhappy – on the contrary, Courfeyrac was having the time of his life (and he’d be lying if he said that Jehan’s legs in that showgirl costume weren’t part of that) – it was more that he was starting to feel pleasantly drunk. And that just happened to be the feeling he always had before he woke up the next morning and regretted _everything_. (Or tried to conjure up regret. Courfeyrac never regretted anything.)

“So, what brings you here?” he said, sauntering up to the bar, and wrapping himself around Grantaire. His friend half smiled and shrugged his shoulders in an attempt to get Courfeyrac _off of him_ , but it seemed the man was half-octopus. 

“You do, asshole,” Grantaire grumbled, but he was smiling. He was always smiling these days, Courfeyrac thought, or at least a lot more than he used to. And Courfeyrac loved Grantaire, so he was happy too. 

“Asshole’s right,” Enjolras murmured from beside Grantaire, their hands twined on the bar. “I’m down three hundred dollars.”

“I told you not to play blackjack,” Grantaire sighed, sipping from a cloudy glass that had clearly _seen things_ at this point, judging by the unfocused gaze Grantaire was sporting. “Not that you ever listen to me.” 

And Enjolras laughed, brusquely. “On the contrary, I listen to you far too much. Although that may just be due to the sheer amount of time you spend speaking.”

And Courfeyrac knew Grantaire talked a lot, that he always, _always_ had. But he’d never quite been bothered by it. A bit annoyed once or twice, but that was when he was messing with their planning of the revolution back _before_. However, even when he was shitfaced drunk, Courfeyrac knew that _Grantaire didn’t remember that_. So, to Courfeyrac’s utter dismay, he couldn’t talk about it. 

“Anything for you?” there came a voice, and it took Courfeyrac an obnoxiously long time to realize it was speaking to him. He looked up to find…the bartender? There was something frighteningly familiar about that bartender. Courfeyrac stared at him openly until it became awkward. Then he quickly ordered the first drink that came to mind. 

“I don’t think we have that kind of wine, buddy,” the bartender said, cocking an eyebrow and looking amused. And that’s when it hit him, and Coufeyrac just blurted it out. 

“Bahorel,” he said. And the man blinked at him several times. 

“Yeah. Guess you’re sober enough to read nametags,” Bahorel remarked and Courfeyrac grinned. 

“Yeah! Reading, hah,” Courfeyrac said, pointing off to somewhere and Bahorel’s eyebrow (because, certainly this man was Bahorel. He looked different, sure, but they all did, honestly. But everything else – every signal he was giving off, every movement his body made – all but _screamed_ Bahorel) was still about as high up on his forehead as eyebrows were allowed to go. 

“You know, buddy, I think you’re done for the night,” Bahorel said slowly. And Courfeyrac just nodded eagerly, not entirely comprehending what he was saying. And then Bahorel was gone and Courfeyrac felt slightly bewildered. 

“D’you know him?” Grantaire said, slurring slightly. And Courfeyrac looked over to find Enjolras mouthing at his neck, looking slightly obscene, Grantaire’s arm about him. And Courfeyrac had to suppress a giggle. 

“You could say that,” he said. And then there was a sudden, insistent tap on his shoulder. 

“Can I _change_ now?” It was Jehan, looking utterly brilliant in something slightly Cher reminiscent. He had somehow gotten hold of the peacock that Courfeyrac had won earlier. Courfeyrac grinned at the creature before pulling it into his arms. 

“GERALD!!” he exclaimed loudly. And he heard Grantaire snort and Enjolras giggle before he heard Jehan sigh exasperatedly. And Courfeyrac then lunged forward and gripped Jehan’s hand in both of his (almost dropping Gerald in his movement, but not sparing enough of a thought to care). “And _Jehan_ , oh, my jewel of the Nile. What is it you need?”

And Jehan sighed, too sober for this shit, before gesturing to his rather odd apparel. “May I take this off now?” 

And Courfeyrac sighed, letting his eyes appraise his figure until the poet’s cheeks were aflame. “I wish you wouldn’t. But what does my opinion matter? If you wish to change, go change. You’re delicious to look at either way.” 

And Jehan was redder than red as he awkwardly smiled before gently sliding his hand from Courfeyrac’s and flouncing off. Courfeyrac sighed. 

“Is that your boyfriend?” a gruff voice asked from behind him. 

“Ah, _non, mon ami. Mais, j’espère… je voudrais pour lui d’être_ ,” Courfeyrac said easily. He didn’t realize he had spoken in any way amiss. At least not until – 

“You can speak _French_?” Grantaire asked, incredulous. And Enjolras choked, his eyes widening as Courfeyrac grasped for some explanation that wasn’t a lie. 

“Of _course_ he knows French. We went to school together, he and I, were in class together, actually. Although, if I _remember_ correctly, I was hardly present…” the bartender suddenly burst out from behind them. And Grantaire gave him a bit of a wide-eyed stare before nodding drunken assent and bending to administer a series of openmouthed kisses to Enjolras’s neck. 

“That was Prouvaire in the showgirl getup?” there was suddenly a whisper against Courfeyrac’s ear. He nodded. “He’s alright? He’s okay? Last I remember he – ”

“He’s fine, Bahorel,” Courfeyrac said softly, turning so that he was facing his friend. There was some pain masked in his eyes, but Bahorel had never been one to complain. Courfeyrac smiled gently up at him. “He died, we all did. But…we came back.” 

Bahorel’s eyes widened, infinitesimally. “You…you’re all here?” And Courfeyrac nodded again. 

“Marius found his… You remember that bit about ‘breathless delight’ and him making an ass of himself all over Paris?” And Bahorel smiled fondly before nodding. “He found her recently. So, I decided we needed to celebrate.” And Courfeyrac smiled broadly. 

“You would decide that _celebration_ included _Vegas_ ,” Bahorel said, grinning. But then his face changed. “Speaking of… ‘ _Je voudrais pour lui d’être_ ’… When did that happen? Since when do you want to…settle down?”

And Courfeyrac crossed his arms on the bar, smiling just a bit. “Since him… This life. It was basically like getting hit in the face with large textbooks full of information that I should have already known.” 

“Sounds painful,” Bahorel said, with a face splitting grin. And then a customer called him from across the bar and he waved to Courf quickly before lumbering over. 

And then Courfeyrac succumbed to a bit of very un-Courf like deep thought. If Bahorel were here, if Bahorel had reasons to _stay_ here, than he couldn’t come back with them. And something about that just seemed so _wrong_. Because, sure, a lot of things had changed since they were French people with fabulous waistcoats and cravats and maybe a top hat or two, but Courfeyrac knew, down to his very core, that Les Amis belonged together. He just wasn’t sure how to get them that way. 

Until the next morning when a slightly bleary-eyed Combeferre, clutching at a travel mug full of coffee, was beginning to pull out of the hotel parking lot. When, suddenly, there was a bang on the window. 

Combeferre slammed the brakes so hard he spilled coffee on himself. Gerald squawked from Jehan's lap. Courfeyrac looked backwards with a grin before unlocking the door. 

“You bastards didn’t really think you could leave me here, did you?” Bahorel said, with a tired grin. And Courfeyrac whooped so loud that even Combeferre laughed, while Jehan, in the back seat, slung his arms around Bahorel’s neck. 

And, just like that, they were together again.

**Author's Note:**

> And where was Combeferre the night before? Being an absolute card shark. That morning, in the car, he was up 5,000 dollars, the lucky bastard. 
> 
> Also, they keep Gerald the peacock. Courfeyrac has a new pet. 
> 
> Questions/comments go below, or at my tumblr address: http://ecriture-de-la-fangirl.tumblr.com
> 
> I hope you have a wonderful day!!


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